


For What Few Find

by mbaline



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Recovery, Sex Pollen, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline
Summary: Sam's voice cracked--damn it, he needed to keep it together, if he broke down now he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop--and then Natasha was placing a gentle hand on the curve of his back and Sam let her pull him in close, let the soft warm weight of her drown out the memory of blood and come and pain that he could still taste on his tongue like he was still back in that room, like he was discovering the horror of finding Steve and Bucky like that all over again, and the slow dawning realisation that this might be it: after seventy years HYDRA might have finally succeeded in tearing them apart forever.Steve gets captured. Bucky goes in after him. Sam finds them in the aftermath.





	For What Few Find

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, this has been a WIP since goddamn _September 2016,_ born out of my desire to see some role reversal in the 'WS/Steve noncon' trope. A conversation in the trash chat last night finally gave me the kick in the ass I needed to polish it up and get it ready to start posting; I can't say updates will be regular, but they will be happening. 
> 
> If there's anything else than needs tagging, please let me know.

He knows something’s wrong the moment he steps inside. 

He’d expected a fight, expected guns drawn on him the moment he entered the base, expected _something, anything._

Instead there’s only silence. No alarms, no hidden traps, and, when he strains his hearing to its limit, no signs of the usual human activity that comes with an active HYDRA base. 

Dread curdles in Bucky’s gut, the feeling that first gripped him when Sam’s voice had crackled over the line - “They’ve got him, Buck. They have Steve” - now a cold knot of ice in his chest, because tracking the path of the men who took Steve lead right to here, and he doesn’t want to know what it means that the base now appears empty; abandoned. 

That doesn’t stop him from heading deeper inside, cutting off comms and Sam’s pleas for him to wait for backup - “Please, Buck, we’ll be there soon” - because even after all these weeks of learning and relearning each other, of growing closer, of sharing a goddamn _bed_ , there’s still some things that Steve and Sam don’t know. Specifically, what exactly HYDRA agents do to those at their mercy. What they did to him for seventy years. 

And there’s no way in hell that Bucky’s gonna sit back and wait if there’s even a chance that they might do the same to Steve; that the way Steve finally finds out is from firsthand experience. 

It’s as he glances down the third corridor on his left that he spots the first body. 

He approaches slowly, weapon drawn and left arm raised, ready to block any incoming attack as he listens out for any signs that it’s a trap. But there’s nothing: the man’s crumpled body remains still and unmoving, no signs of life. His skin, when Bucky crouches down and presses careful fingers to his exposed neck, is still faintly warm. No blood on him, either, but there’s what looks like a fresh spider-web of cracks on the wall above, and another touch confirms it: he has a broken neck, likely from the force with which he hit the wall. 

_Steve._

Bucky gets to his feet, and keeps going. 

He finds the second body a few minutes later, in much the same way he found the first. A third is close by, and then a fourth, but it’s the fifth that stops him in his tracks, because this time it’s not a broken neck. 

This one’s warmer than the others. The blood, when Bucky traces a finger through it, is fresh. He follows the trail of red further down the corridor, and finds what he’s looking for a few feet away. 

The expression on the man’s face is all twisted up, dark finger-shaped bruises clearly visible on his cheeks beneath the layer of blood coating his skin. He must’ve still been alive when it happened. From the look of him, he died screaming. 

“Fuck,” Bucky murmurs, because Steve only kills when he has to, and when he does he tries to keep it clean. The broken necks Bucky can understand, the actions of a captive man fighting back against his captors - he can understand that more than anything - but this, _this_ isn’t Steve at all. 

Steve doesn’t rip people’s heads from their body with his bare hands. 

Bucky’s eyes drift to the series of dark splotches a little further down the corridor. When he gets closer, he sees them from what they are: footprints, painted with blood. 

Following the trail leads him on a winding route deeper into the base, marked by more bodies in varying states of ruin. As he passes through the bloody miasma of the dozenth one, something about the shape of the walls around him sparks a jolt of familiarity, long-buried memories slowly rising from the earth: he knows, without question, that the lab is around the next turning, hidden behind a thick metal door.

A door which has been dented by a crumpled body, and ripped right off its hinges.

When Bucky gets closer to the doorway, he sees the aftermath of destruction: white-coated bodies strewn across the room like bowling pins, instruments shattered and the floor slick with fluid from the cracked cryo tank in the corner. There’s a Chair, anchored right in the centre of the room, its metal arms mangled beyond repair. 

And Steve’s sitting in it.

He’s hunched over, head bowed, unmoving even when Bucky steps through the doorway. As he gets closer, the smell of blood intensifies. It’s only as he enters the room that he finds out why: Steve’s completely drenched in it. His underwear - the only clothing he has left - is practically black with it. 

A vial cracks beneath Bucky’s boot as he moves closer, and it’s then that he registers the smell lurking beneath the surface of blood. It’s a cloying, sickly-sweet smell, and so familiar it makes Bucky’s heart stop when he sees the four faint pinpricks dotting Steve’s neck. 

Dumb HYDRA fucks must’ve thought it was a sedative.

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs, breaking the silence as he comes to a stop right in front of him. “You’re okay. You can fight this.” 

Steve doesn’t react beyond the shuddering rise and fall of his shoulders. His hands are trembling, almost imperceptibly. A few more moments pass, and then his head jerks up, towards Bucky, his teeth bared in a snarl.

That’s all the warning he gets before Steve snaps into action. 

Bucky blocks the first blow, and the second, but on the third Steve manages to get a hand on his throat, fingers gripping bruisingly tight. In the split second that follows, Bucky’s left arm whirrs into action and then halts midway through the bone-shattering punch designed to throw any attacker off, because this is _Steve_ , he can’t—

Steve surges forward, his grip on Bucky’s throat driving him back towards the wall and smashing him against the cabinet there. Pain explodes in his skull as his head cracks against the cabinet’s sharp metal corner, glass crunching beneath his shoulders when Steve slams him back again and the cabinet window shatters. 

He manages to get the metal arm between them, shoving Steve back hard and blocking the next incoming hit to his head with his right forearm. Steve doesn’t soften the blow, hitting so hard it’s like he’s trying to punch _through_ it; bone cracks, pain zinging up into Bucky’s shoulder as he deflects another strike to the ribs. He’s faster, but Steve’s stronger; 

that’s always been the case, but like this, with Steve no longer holding back, it’s no longer an even fight. Not unless he lets the Winter Soldier instincts take over - the ones that scream to take out the target by any means necessary, to _attack_ , to _kill -_ and he’s not doing that. He’s not letting that happen. _This is what it was like for Steve on the helicarrier,_ Bucky realises, as Steve hits him again: _faced with an unstoppable foe, faced with a Bucky that didn’t know him, that didn’t stop until he lay bleeding and broken and still, and even then, pleading for Bucky to hear him._

Steve’s fist tightens on Bucky’s throat, implacable against Bucky’s attempts to dislodge it. With his free hand he hits again and again, driving past Bucky’s defences and striking hard against Bucky’s ribs, his collarbone, driving the last of the air from him with a blow to his stomach and then - before Bucky can deflect it - following it up with a vicious slam of his fist into the side of Bucky’s head.

A blinding starburst of pain splashes across his vision. The next thing he knows, he’s face down on the ground, blood dripping into his eyes. He tries to lift his head, forcing his way through the stab of agonising nausea that follows. The crushing grip on his throat is gone, but before he can even drag in a full breath Steve’s on him again, pinning him down beneath his bulk. A hand on the back of his head slams his face against the floor, and then again, his nose crunching at the impact, drowning out the smaller slices of pain as his face grinds into the shards of broken glass littering the floor. 

“Steve,” he manages to slur out through the blood streaming into his mouth, trying to get his left arm under him, “Steve, listen to me,” but Steve’s settled over him now, keeping him pinned, and Steve’s leaning down, mouth brushing against Bucky’s ear, his throat, the exposed skin of his upper shoulder where his uniform’s shifted aside. The touch is so startlingly gentle it freezes Bucky in place; because this is how Steve does it when it’s been a bad night, Sam snuggled up in front and Steve’s warm bulk behind, voices soft and soothing as they hold him: _Easy, Buck. You’re okay, we’re here, we’ve got you._ Hands and lips gentle as they touch him, as they cup his cheek and lean in and—

Steve bites down, hard, the rush of pain as his teeth sink deep into Bucky’s shoulder slicing the memory in two and dragging a ragged yell from his throat. He thrashes, trying to throw Steve off but succeeding only in spurring him on: Steve drags his blood-slick mouth to a new patch of unbroken skin and clamps down again, teeth crunching deeper this time. 

Beneath the blinding pain a new sensation registers: Steve’s beginning to move. Just a slight back and forth, but the feel of it is unmistakable: he’s rolling his hips against Bucky’s pinned ones. He’s _rutting._

Dread stabs Bucky like a knife to the gut. He tries again to throw Steve off, this time finally succeeding in freeing an arm, his right hand scrabbling for something, anything, before closing around a stray shard of glass. The angle is bad for anything more than a shallow slice across Steve’s flank, but it does the trick, distracting Steve long enough for Bucky to slam a metal elbow into the side of his head, buying himself a few more seconds of reprieve as Steve jerks back.

He pushes down the various screaming pains in his body and takes stock of his injuries, aware that worse is yet to come. But he’s survived many terrible things, things that no human could live through. He can survive this; he’s done it before. Because Steve isn’t going to stop. Not without a sedative, and the alternative is hitting Steve, _really_ hitting him, and Bucky knows that he can’t. Not again. Not when he can’t be sure he’ll be able to control himself once he starts, and not when he knows, with full certainty, that he can survive whatever comes next.

The others are on their way; they’ll be here soon. Bucky just has to make it until then. Steve will do what he needs, the drug will burn itself out, and then it’ll be over.

That doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy: Steve shakes off the blow and lunges forward again, seizing the neck of Bucky’s jacket collar and yanking it back until he chokes, scrabbling for purchase on the blood-slick floor. Steve tugs again, harder this time, tearing the fabric apart with both hands until the jacket lies in tatters, the thin undershirt Bucky wears underneath shredded along with it until he’s naked to the waist. 

Something about the sight of all that bare skin does something to Steve. He ducks down and leaves a whole mess of bites across Bucky’s shoulders like he’s trying to mark him up, and even knowing what’s coming and what he has to do, Bucky can’t make himself stop fighting, writhing under Steve’s implacable weight as Steve resumes his jerky grind against Bucky’s ass, panting hotly against the back of Bucky’s neck. It’s too much like—like _sex,_ halfway between the kind he tries to forget, and the kind of rough fucking he loves, pinned between Sam and Steve as he struggles and thrashes and writhes - their own secret game, the one they don’t stop playing until he says _Red._ Sometimes he comes just like that, trapped between them, and stops thinking about whether it’s a conditioned response or if it’s a fucked-up thing to like and just lets himself _feel_ it. 

Thinking of it like that helps, in some twisted way, turns what’s happening - what Steve’s doing to him - into something he knows he can take. _It’s just a game,_ Bucky tells himself, as Steve tears his belt away and tugs his pants down, nails gouging bloody lines across the curve of his ass. _Just another game,_ and the sticky-wet head of Steve’s cock is bumping up against him, smearing slick in his thighs as Steve’s hips jerk. 

Bucky lets himself go limp, all of the fight draining out of him at the realisation that if there’s any of Steve still left in there, any tiny fragment that the drugs haven’t obliterated; if there’s even a chance that Steve might remember this, Bucky can’t struggle, can’t yell, can’t beg. He can’t do that to Steve, can’t ruin him with memories like that. HYDRA’s already done enough; Bucky isn’t about to make it worse. Not when he knows he can take it. 

On the next rut forward Steve’s cock catches against him and then pushes _in._ The next harsh thrust drags it back and then shoves it deeper, forcing its way past the resistance. Something tears, and beneath the sting of familiar pain there’s— _relief,_ because that’s good, that’ll help ease the way. 

A few more thrusts and Steve’s hands are on him again, wrenching his hips up until he’s on his knees, face pressed to the floor. The note of wrongness jars him out of his head, because Steve and Sam prefer him to have his head up; they like to watch him, like to see his face and all the things he can’t keep from showing on it. No mask to hide it away, no blows to the jaw to keep his eyes averted, no face shoved down out of sight, and it had felt too raw, at first, being exposed like that before them both, but then it had changed. To be looked at not with disgust or indifference but with desire, with _love_ : it had felt _good._

The memory of it slips through his fingers as Steve slams into him again, pain lighting him all the way up, because he knows now that Steve’s always held a part of himself back, even when Bucky’s asked for it _harder, come on, I can take it_. 

But Steve’s not holding back any more.

_You’ve had worse,_ Bucky had told himself, but even after facing a whole line-up of agents it had never been like this, not even when they’d been hopped up on the same drug that’s coursing through Steve’s veins. They’d made him bleed, cracked bones and torn him up inside, but even then none of that compared to the strength of a single supersoldier, of the kind of damage it can do. He’s going to need medical attention after this. If Steve keeps going like this, he’s going to need to be carried out on a stretcher.

Dimly, through the haze of pain, he registers the change in Steve’s breathing, the kind that means he’s about three seconds away from coming. Bucky forces his shaking thighs to obey, grinding back against Steve, urging, coaxing; anything to make this end faster. 

On the next harsh thrust Steve begins to shake apart, pressing in close and hips jerking as he shoots off deep inside with a low groan. When it’s over he lies still, sweat-slick body plastered against Bucky’s own. 

Relief swells up in Bucky’s chest, threatening to overwhelm him. It’s over. They made it through. It’s going to be okay. 

“Steve,” he manages to slur out, turning his head to the side and feeling the wet drip of blood down his cheek. Steve doesn’t respond; instead tonguing a warm, wet swipe over one of the deeper bites on Bucky’s shoulders, lapping at the blood there as if in apology. 

Bucky shudders: it’s too much. The pain grounds him; the absence of it threatens to shake him apart completely. He _needs_ the pain. Right now it’s about the only thing that’s familiar, something he can anchor himself to while he does what he needs to do now: get upright, and get Steve out of here. 

Except that when he goes to tug his right wrist out from Steve’s bruising grip, Steve doesn’t let him go. 

“Steve,” Bucky says again, to no reply. 

He lifts his head, gritting his teeth against the vicious nausea that bubbles up when he does - he’s gotta have a concussion, if not worse. He turns and tries to get a look at Steve. 

Before he can, Steve tightens his grip and slams Bucky’s wrist against the floor.

And it’s then that Bucky realises he’s made a mistake. Made a single, terrible miscalculation: the serum didn’t just give Steve super strength. His refractory period changed too; he can go four or five times for each of Sam’s. Once isn’t going to be enough for the drug to burn out of his system. Not when he’s already running on quadruple the dose. 

Even as he thinks it, Steve starts moving again. And now that he is, beneath the blur of pain Bucky can feel how Steve’s still hard, sliding out lazily through the mess and then driving back in like he’s trying to fuck it in deeper. His hand slides from Bucky’s wrist to his neck, fingers closing tightly around his throat and squeezing until Bucky chokes. 

_It’s just a game_ , he repeats to himself, and there’s enough familiarity in the feeling to anchor himself to it and let the memory unspool, sinking down into it until reality feels like a distant thing; it’s just a body being fucked. Doesn’t matter: here, he’s on his back, Steve over him, in him. There’s a hand on his cock stroking so torturously slow he’s ready to beg, ready to fucking _cry_ it feels so unbearably good _,_ and when he finally nods Steve slides a hand to his throat. Just resting it there at first, even as the rhythm of his thrusts stutters as Sam, pressed up close behind him, does something particularly good with his fingers. 

When Bucky arches into his touch Steve starts to up the pressure, a little at a time, his fingers slowly tightening around Bucky’s throat. Real careful about it, the way he and Sam are with every new thing they try, but right now Bucky doesn’t want careful. He pries his left hand from the shredded sheets - with a distant fuck, another set that’ll need replacing - and curls his fingers around Steve’s wrist, urging him on, and Steve finally gets with the program, and starts fucking him properly. 

His grip on Bucky’s neck bears down, cutting off his air supply completely, _fuck_ , yeah, that’s more like it; Bucky grinds up against him, bucking into Sam’s hand on his cock, feeling lit up from the inside. When his vision starts to splotch Steve gentles his hold, enough to draw a sharp, sweet breath, and then it’s gone again as Steve bears down. Bucky struggles against it this time, just to remind himself that he _can_ , he doesn’t need permission, feeling a grin spread across his face when Steve only grips him harder. 

It’s good, at first. That sensation of being pinned between Steve’s hand and his cock, while Sam works him over. The feeling of free fall as the room begins to spin, darkness spilling across his vision as he rides that dizzying edge between pain and pleasure. _God,_ he could come like this. Will come like this, the moment Steve loosens his hold; that aching thrill of relief when the pain ends has carried him over the edge more than once. 

But that moment doesn’t come, because Steve doesn’t let up. 

Bucky struggles against him, harder this time, bucking up into Sam’s hand as he does. Chasing all the pleasure he can find, because maybe Steve wants him to come like this, _in_ the pain rather than ahead of it, and it wouldn’t be the first time Bucky’s done that either. But that was before - Sam and Steve don’t do it like that; for them it isn’t about humiliating him, about hurting him for their own entertainment. They only hurt him in the ways that he asks for, and even then, it’s with their one main rule: _if it doesn’t feel good, we can stop._

And it’s starting to feel bad: Steve’s hand on his throat feels like a burning brand. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. 

“Red,” he manages to gasp out.

Maybe Steve doesn’t hear it, though, because he doesn’t stop. 

“ _Red_ ,” he tries again, dread rippling through him at the realisation that he’s only got a few more seconds left before he can’t speak at all, and Steve isn’t stopping _,_ not even after he said the word, why isn’t he _stopping._

On the next vicious thrust Bucky loses the fight against himself, against the need to stay quiet and pliant, and his traitorous body rebels. A cry slips between his bitten-raw lips as his thighs kick and jerk beneath Steve’s weight, trying to get free. 

Steve stops mid-thrust. 

In the long moment of stillness that follows, Bucky can practically _feel_ Steve’s eyes on him, tracing a path that he then follows with his fingers. His grip on Bucky’s left wrist eases, fingers uncurling to stroke a line along his forearm, his bicep, up over the plates of his shoulder. Pausing a little, curious, at the scarred place where metal meets skin, before his warm palm settles over Bucky’s shoulder blade. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, bracing himself for more bites, but instead Steve just...touches, him. Sensing out the metal workings under the skin, maybe, all the cables and wiring that keep the metal arm anchored to his body. 

It’s all the reprieve Bucky gets before a fist slams into his lower back, right over his kidney. The sheer agony of it makes his whole body seize, a strangled cry of pain torn from his throat when Steve hits him there again full-force, and then, in quick succession, right over his spine. 

Bucky screams. His vision greys out, threatening to send him spiralling down into unconsciousness. It takes desperately clawing back each little piece of awareness before he comes back to himself long minutes later to the feel of something splattering hot on his skin as Steve shoots off again, rutting lazily through the mess on Bucky’s back and ass and thighs. Everything below the waist feels numb, flashes of pain piercing through the haze but not dispelling it. He can’t move his legs; can barely feel them.

“Steve,” the words spill out of him along with a mouthful of blood, “Steve— _please_ ,” and there’s more blood rising in his throat, he’s choking on it, “Stop,” but Steve doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, because this isn’t Steve at all. Steve’s gone, and in his place there’s a nightmare wearing his face. 

Bucky does the only thing he can do, now, reaching out blindly for that old familiar feeling, the only thing that kept him alive all those years. On the edge of his awareness - pushed down deep for so long - the Soldier beckons to him with the comfort of decades of being trained that to endure meant letting go of everything and going away inside and waiting for it to be over. 

So Bucky does. 

It’s a long, long way to fall. 


End file.
